Falling Again
by Origami628
Summary: John had never considered himself suicidal. But after a row with Sherlock, he finds himself switching places with the detective to see exactly what had happened that day...   Post-Reichenbach
1. Reimagination

John had never considered himself suicidal, by any means.

Sure he was a risk-taker, sure the adrenaline rushes were fun, but this? Whose stupid idea even was this? Why did he ever agree to this, when it was so soon, so soon after Sherlock came back, and now THIS? Whose. Idea. Was. This.  
>Then he remembered; he had brought it up, during a row with Sherlock. He had been trying to get the other man to see just HOW much he had been hurt, how much he had needed Sherlock to be there, he could even have gone with him, hell, he'd have welcomed it! But then he had asked 'How would you have felt in my shoes?'<br>Which led to him standing on the rooftop on St. Bart's with his phone in his hand, waiting for Sherlock to step out of the cab. He had to think of what to say, trying to remember; what had happened? Tears leapt to his eyes as he thought about that day; as they called it now, "The Incident". Sherlock had been on the rooftop; he remembered the raw emotion in his voice. He could even imagine the man had been crying…he had been scared. John knew that now, had seen it in his return, in his eyes for days afterwards. Scared he'd lose John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Scared he'd lose the only people that meant anything to him, because he meant something to them. John imagined it; a sniper on Lestrade (oh my god). A sniper on Mrs. Hudson, blissfully unaware, sipping tea (oh god that's not right feeling a bit queasy). A sniper on Sherlock (NO).  
>John nearly felt his knees buckle at the last, a stab of panic so intense it hurt and wrought tears to his eyes as he imagined it. And then he understood. He understood why Sherlock had done it, understood more thoroughly than all the times he'd made the detective explain. Oh god, oh god, oh god, it seemed to be his pulse speaking the words as it ran frenzied through his veins. He shook his head slightly and started as he saw Sherlock get out of the cab, He was here. Steady, soldier. Oh god why had he ever said that.<br>Sherlock blinked up at John; a figure on the roof, silhouetted by the grey clouds of London (nostalgia hits three years it was him and there was John where he was John is he alright John he knows the feeling and there was nothing he could do oh that hurts alright Sherlock stop). He knew what to do; went to walk forward, picking up his phone when it rang.  
>"John?"<br>"Sherlock—I…"  
>"John, are you alright?"<br>"I—I'm fine. But—"  
>"No, don't speak, I'll get you down."<br>Sherlock turned to move and John remembered a flash.  
><em>"Stay exactly where you are."<em>  
>"Stay exactly where you are!"<br>_"Would you do this for me?"_  
>"Would you do this for me?"<br>_"Please…"_  
>"Please…"<br>The words, familiar, rang back to Sherlock, seeming to bounce from his lips to John's and back into his ears, settling, nesting, creating a rather unpleasant feeling to start boiling up. One he hadn't cared about until he'd met John, one that had nearly brought him to his knees in the severity of it, one that had made him fake his own death, jump off a roof, in the severity of it.  
>Fear.<p>

The chill running through his veins (fear he's afraid oh john he must have been afraid and confused he knew he hurt him he KNEW it had hurt but this much never this much oh god)

"Goodbye, Sherlock."  
>John couldn't believe that he was about to do this; but he cast thought aside, cast everything aside as he dropped his phone behind him, took a last lingering look at Sherlock…<br>and fell.


	2. Reinvention

Wind whistled through his ears; arms and legs flailing, pinwheeling, trying to keep him afloat and fighting helplessly against the wind, and then WHAM.  
>Into the truck full of cushions. Just like that.<br>John took a deep breath, shaking lightly, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He was slightly dazed and did a quick check to make sure he was alright physically before standing up and attempting to wade through the bags and boxes and cushions and who-knows-what.

Then the truck moved.

John fell awkwardly onto a cushion and yelped in surprise, head shooting up to look at the driver. Then he saw the passenger and the gun. It was just his luck that the truck he landed in would get carjacked with him in it. Better call Sherloc-  
>Oh. The phone. He tossed it on the roof.<p>

Damn.

Sherlock had caught his breath watching John jump (oh god he jumped he did it as planned the truck what if he misses the truck he can't I made it my legs are longer oh god JOHN) and then broke into a sprint to catch up to him, to apologize, to do who-knows-what but know he was wrong and John was right—

-but John wasn't there. Nowhere, in sight, him or the truck they'd asked to borrow for him to land it. The detective's eyes widened and he spun around, trying to make sense of it.  
>"John! John!"<p>

And then it hit him; the truck. He had noticed someone walking that way, they must have carjacked the truck. Or kidnapped John. This was distressing.  
>He looked around, quickly, analyzing, observing, doing anything he could to pick up John's trail; then ran after the truck, quickly, as quick as he could pace himself, trying to figure out how to intercept it best. This wasn't a taxi, he couldn't just jump in front of it.<p>

Well he could, but John would not like that.

So he ran hard, weaving through London, his mind working a route and chanting a mantra of John to keep his breath steady.

John, however, was quite content here for the minute. He didn't hurt too bad, but he was sore, and making a makeshift chair from a few cushions he had settled in, for the moment. All the while he kept glancing out at the street (stoplight, sign, caught in traffic, we're moving slow enough, come on Sherlock). He knew the man would find him; but then he saw Scotland Yard and decided to hell with it, and got out, walking into the building casually to speak with Lestrade on a recent solved case.

Sherlock chased the truck for hours, it seemed, getting it in sight (there it was red truck slats all the cushions and boxes and bags John where was John)—

-and watched as the truck swerved, and crashed into the Thames.

"No…John. John, no…no nononono John, John!"  
>He ran on impulse, not knowing where he was going or what was happening but John was in trouble, John was in that truck and the truck was in the Thames and oh god.<p>

There was nothing he could do. The thought sunk in his chest, into his stomach and settled. It had all gone awry. Another of his stupid ideas had hurt John, he had hurt John it was his fault and John was at the bottom of the Thames because of him (Stupid Sherlock Stupid you knew this would happen he'd get hurt because of you it was stupid to let him come along and yet he wouldn't have had it any other way past tense why was it past tense).

So Sherlock walked home, his eyes staring blankly ahead and the world falling down around his ears; barely able to drag himself up into his chair before collapsing.

John walked back out of Scotland Yard with a bit of a pleased expression before trying to catch a cab. It took five tries and then he got fed up and just walked. A pleasant stroll couldn't hurt after earlier—hello, what's this? He walked over behind the crowd gathering near the river and managed to sidle his way to eavesdrop in on gossip.  
>"—truck fell into the Thames—"<br>"—no one survived—"  
>"—what an awful thing—"<br>John's blood ran cold as he heard them. No survivors. No survivors oh god what if Sherlock saw and hadn't seen him? What if he hadn't caught up before this—or what if he was in the truck? He set off at a run, sprinting as fast as he could back to the flat, bursting through the unlocked door like a madman and up the stairs before Mrs. Hudson could even make it out to admonish him.  
>"Sherlock!"<br>The man snapped to attention, his eyes widening as John stood panting in the doorway. His eyes were dull and he was a bit paler, like—oh.

"Uh…"  
>"John…"<br>John shifted, suddenly somewhat awkward now he burst in here like his life depended on it. Granted, in a way, it had.

The look Sherlock was giving him now (disbelieving but hopeful; oh god so sorry) didn't help.  
>After a minute under Sherlock's gaze, John cleared his throat, about to speak, but the detective moved, and in a few loping strides pulled John into a tight hug, murmuring an apology over and over.<br>"A-ah, Sherlock, whoa, wha—you're apologizing? Wha—No, no I should apologize, I suggested the whole thing—"  
>Sherlock cut in sharply, and now John could feel the subtle tremble underneath that the detective tried to hide.<br>"No, you were justified in trying to show me, I had not considered the carjacking or the Thames—"  
>"You saw that—"<br>"I was there."  
>"Oh."<br>Oh. No wonder Sherlock was so distraught. He thought he had watched him crash after surviving the building.  
>"Okay. List of things never to do again; jump off buildings."<br>"Agreed."  
>"Uh, Sherlock?"<br>"Yes John?"  
>"You can let go now."<br>"…Apologies." And the man stepped back, a bit awkward, slightly bashful. Just like when the tables were turned not two months ago. The wound was stinging still, this didn't help. John took a deep breath, and then an idea came to him; so he smiled, and looked at the detective.  
>"Sherlock."<p>

"Yes John?"  
>"I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."<br>Sherlock stared for a second, then they both burst into nervous giggles, soon dissolving into laughter as the tense air dissipated in their companionship.

"Lead the way, John."

"Off we go!"

And so they did.


End file.
